“It does smell like a turtle.” The cat scratched behind her ears.
“Kinda.”
“I’ve never smelled anything quite like it—have you?”
“Never.”
5
Even Mrs. George Hogendobber’s impassioned monologue on the evils of this world failed to rouse Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Before Mrs. Hogendobber had both feet through the front door she had declared that Adam fell from grace over the apple, then man broke the covenant with God, a flood cleansed us by killing everyone but Noah and family, Moses couldn’t prevent his flock from worshipping the golden calf, and Jezebel was on every street corner, to say nothing of record covers. These pronouncements were not necessarily in historical order but there was a clear thread woven throughout: We are by nature sinful and unclean. This, naturally, led to Kelly Craycroft’s death. Mrs. H. sidestepped revealing exactly how Hebrew history as set down in the Old Testament culminated in the extinction of a paving contractor.
Harry figured if Mrs. Hogendobber could live with her logical lacunae, so could she.
Tossing her junk mail in the wastebasket, Mrs. Hogendobber spoke exhaustingly of Holofernes and Judith. Before reaching their gruesome biblical conclusion she paused, a rarity in itself, walked over to the counter, and glanced over. “Where are the animals?”
“Out cold. Lazy things,” Harry answered. “In fact, they were so sluggish this morning that I drove them to work.”
“You spoil those creatures, Harry, and you need a new truck.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Josiah entered as Harry uttered the word guilty.
“I knew it was you all along.” He pointed at Harry. The soft pink of his Ralph Lauren polo shirt accented his tan.
“You shouldn’t joke about a thing like that.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s nostrils flared.
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Hogendobber, I’m not joking about the Craycroft murder. You’re oversensitive. We all are. It’s been a terrible shock.”
“Indeed it has. Indeed it has. Put not thy faith in worldly things, Mr. DeWitt.”
Josiah beamed at her. “I’m afraid I do, ma’am. In a world of impermanence I take the best impermanence I can find.”
A swirl of color rose on Mrs. Hogendobber’s beautifully preserved cheeks. “You’re witty and sought-after and too clever by half. People like you come to a bad end.”
“Perhaps, but think of the fun I’ll have getting there, and I really can’t see that you’re having any fun at all.”
“I will not stand here and be insulted.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s color glowed crimson.
“Oh, come on, Mrs. H., you don’t walk on water,” Josiah coolly replied.
“Exactly! I can’t swim.” Her color deepened. She felt the insult keenly; she would never think of comparing herself to Jesus. She turned to Harry. “Good day, Harry.” With forced dignity, Mrs. Hogendobber left the post office.
“Good day, Mrs. Hogendobber.” Harry turned to the howling Josiah. “She has absolutely no sense of humor and you’re too hard on her. She’s quite upset. What seems a trifle to you is major to her.”
“Oh, hell, Harry, she bores you every bit as much as she bores me. Truth?”
Harry wasn’t looking for an argument. She was conversant with Mrs. Hogendobber’s faults and the woman did bore her to tears, but Mrs. Hogendobber was fundamentally good. You couldn’t say that about everybody.
“Josiah, her values are spiritual and yours aren’t. She’s overbearing and narrow-minded about religion but if I were sick and called her at three in the morning, she’d be there.”
“Well”—his color was brighter now, too—“I hope you know I would come over too. You only have to ask. I value you highly, Harry.”
“Thank you, Josiah.” Harry wondered if he valued her at all.
“Did I tell you I am to be Mrs. Sanburne’s walker for the funeral? It’s not Newport but it’s just as important.”
Josiah often escorted Mim. They had their spats but Mim was not a woman to attend social gatherings without clinging to the arm of a male escort, and Jim would be in Richmond on the day of Kelly’s funeral. Josiah adored escorting Mim; unlike Jim, he placed great store on status, and like Mim he needed much external proof of that status. They’d jet to parties in New York, Palm Beach, wherever the rich congregated. Mim and Josiah thought nothing of a weekend in London or Vienna if the guest list was right. What bored Jim about his wife thrilled Josiah.
“I dread the funeral.” Harry did, too.
“Harry, try Ajax.”
“What?”
Josiah pointed to her hands, still discolored from cleaning the stamps two days ago.
Harry held her hands up. She’d forgotten about it. Yesterday seemed years away. “Oh.”
“If Ajax fails, try sulfuric acid.”
“Then I won’t have any hands at all.”
“I’m teasing you.”
“I know, but I have a sense of humor.”
“Darn good one too.”
The late afternoon sun slanted across the crepe myrtle behind the post office. Mrs. Murphy stopped to admire the deep-pink blossoms glowing in the hazy light. Harry locked the door as Pewter stuck her nose out from behind Market’s store. Courtney could be heard calling her from inside.
“Where are you going?” the large cat wanted to know.
“Maude’s,” came Tucker’s jaunty reply.
Pewter, dying to confide in someone, even a dog, that she had seen Bob Berryman sneak out of Maude’s shop, switched her tail. Mrs. Murphy was such a bitch. Why give her the advantage of hot news, or at least warm news? She decided to drop a hint like a leaf of fragrant catnip. “Maude’s not telling all she knows.”
Mrs. Murphy’s head snapped around. “What do you mean?”
“Oh . . . nothing.” Pewter’s delicious moment of torment was cut short by the appearance of Courtney Shiflett.
“There you are. You come inside.” She scooped up the cat and took her back into the air-conditioned store.
Harry waved at Courtney and continued on her way to Maude Bly Modena’s. She thought about going in the back door but decided to go through the front. That would give her the opportunity to see if anything new was in the window. Beautiful baskets spilling flowers covered the lorry in the front yard. Colorful cartons full of seed packets were in the window. Maude advertised that packing need not be boring and anything that would hold or wrap a present was her domain. She carried a good stock of greeting cards too.
Upon seeing Harry through the window, Maude waved her inside. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker trotted into the store.
“Harry, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I was cutting up the newspaper to send Lindsay a clipping about Kelly’s death and then I decided to send her a CARE package.”
“Where is she?”
“Heading toward Italy. I’ve got an address for her.”
Mrs. Murphy nestled into a basket filled with crinkly paper. Tucker stuck her nose into the basket. Crinkly sounds pleased the cat, but Tucker thought, Give me a good bone, any day. She nudged Mrs. Murphy.
“Tucker, this is my basket.”
“I know. What do you think Pewter meant?”
“A bid for attention. She wanted me to beg her for news. And I’m glad that I didn’t.”
As the two animals were discussing the finer points of Pewter’s personality, Harry and Maude had embarked on serious girl talk about divorce, a subject known to Maude, who endured one before moving to Crozet.
“It’s a roller coaster.” Maude sighed.
“Well, this would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to see him all the time and if he’d take a little responsibility for what happened.”
“Don’t expect the crisis to change him, Harry. You may be changing. I think I can say that you are, even though we haven’t known each other since B.C. But your growth isn’t his growth. Anyway, my experience with men is that they’ll do anything to avoid emotional growth, avoid looking deep inside. That’s what mistresses, booze, and Porsches are all about.” Maude removed her bright red-rimmed glasses and smiled.